


The Pick Up

by RenaRoo



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Washington is a grown ass man that expects personal time when he requests it. Unfortunately he rarely gets what he wants. Which is the exact problem Captain Tucker has considering everyone in the base seems very capable of getting the opening Tucker desperately needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pick Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephemeraltea (temporarily_obsessed)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporarily_obsessed/gifts), [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/gifts).



> A/N: goodluckdetective and ephemeraltea are completely responsible for me putting this crackpot, 2 AM idea down as an actual, published fic. If I believed in carrying shame for fandom things, then I believe this would certainly qualify as bitter shame and disappointment in myself and my life choices.
> 
> I made a tumblr post not too long ago about how I think it might be my personal goal in life as an asexual woman to make sex as hilarious and awkward for everyone else as it is for me, and this is just further evidence that I’m making good on that goal. Forgive me all.
> 
> Also I tried to think of the, like, worst RomCom name imaginable and feel I pretty accurately delivered it here.

It had begun as a suggestion handed down by the general herself. She noted an “increase in aggressive tendencies” coupled with an “overabundance of unnecessary drills” as signs that, just perhaps, Agent Washington could use some cool down time. That, just maybe, he required a late morning to sleep in, allow them to handle troop assignments and to give his usual troops some much deserved rest as well.

The problem, of course, was that Wash couldn’t have used the additional morning hours given to him for sleep if he had tried. 

When Kimball had found him in his office, tucked away behind paperwork and maps, trying to think his way through puzzles only _he_ was causing for himself, she nearly drug him back out of command by his ear. 

“Do not leave your barracks tomorrow until ten,” she ordered. “It’s for your own good.”

“That’s five hours I don’t know what to do with,” Wash replied honestly.

“And that, Agent Washington, is precisely my point.”

Despite all his mannerisms, following orders to a “T”  was not exactly something Washington was good at. He was decent at it, but by the time he looked to his alarm clock and saw the read out blaring _6:15_ he thought there was a very good chance he was going to lose his mind. 

He’d already counted how many yellow discolorations were visible on the ceiling (eighteen, yikes), and had bothered to come up with a new drilling assignment for when he _was_ in charge of the training room again. 

What Kimball thought he could continue to accomplish in the following three hours and forty-five minutes in the barracks that he couldn’t have done in the training room or in his office was truly beyond his comprehension. 

It was then that occurred to him that Kimball was completely right. 

He was uptight _as fuck.  
_

There were plenty of reasons for that, and all his fingers and toes were hardly enough to begin counting them off, but Wash knew that most of those weren’t exactly solvable. At least not by him and certainly not in the middle of a war for survival. But he could do some things to relieve the tension himself.

Which was just a mundane and average and completely normal adult thing to do. It should _not_ have even been a big thought one way or the other. The only real question was why it wasn’t something he took care of sooner or did more for himself. 

So he got through some of the necessities, because unlike _some_ members of Blue Team he wasn’t a barbarian about it, grabbed some tissues from his half-bath, got comfortable on his bed, and was reminded exactly why he took care of this so sparsely. 

The first choked yell made him bite down so hard on his tongue that he was _sure_ he’d bitten it in half. Which, of course, he hadn’t, but suddenly the coppery taste in his mouth was not appealing at all.

He walked over to the sink, spit out some blood, examined his damage in the mirror, washed out with water, and went back to bed. 

The fact that he still had a boner after all of that was probably telling in its own way and Wash was going to remember to make it up to his body more before he tried at it again only to hit his head when he tried to turn as quick as he could into the wall so that his grunt didn’t somehow reverberate to the door. 

Wash stared at the brick wall for a moment, swore a few times. 

He was an embarrassment. Just to himself, but an embarrassment all the same. And the sooner he took care of this, the better because he knew himself well enough to know that none of this was a good sign. 

Deciding that the best course of action was just to let go and muffle what he could, Wash stuck his head face first into his pillow, arched back a bit, and got into a good motion. 

Or, at least, it _had_ been just moments before the door slammed open, lock bursting, and Wash was sent jumping up from his bed in full alarm, heart nearly knocked out of his chest by its own pounding. 

“WASH!” Carolina cried out, full horror in her voice, when she went stock still. Her green eyes grew so large that Wash thought for a moment they were going to pop out. 

Wash grabbed at his sheets. “Carolina!”

“I... you...” she stared at him. “Screaming.”

“I-I wasn’t....” he was, he completely was. He just had hoped it wasn’t that loud.

“I...”

“I’m fine,” Wash said as calmly as he could manage. “Sorry I woke you.”

Carolina’s face was glowing red and, for a moment, Wash had thought that perhaps she shared as much shame for the misunderstanding as he did. That she was just as likely to walk out of the room and never speak of it again as he was.

But then she snorted loudly, doubling over with a long crackle of laughter. She sounded like a hyena.

Wash, bare ass naked under his sheets, looked to the ceiling and thought, for just a moment, that the signs of mildew were a blessing and that everything could come tumbling on top of him after all. It was a better option. 

“I just... don’t see how this is funny,” Wash said plainly. “You broke my lock, too, like... are you going to apologize about that or...”

“There are so many jokes that North and York made that make _so_ much more sense now,” Carolina heaved, wiping literal tears from her eyes. “I just... Wash...”

“It’s _my_ room at the end of the day,” Wash continued, waving to it with a free hand. “I can do whatever I want in here.”

“You were... I thought you were hurt,” Carolina said, her voice trying desperately to sound sobered up. “Or having a nightmare or...”

“I was fine, but since we’ve established that there’s no scenario that would be worse than this one,” Wash continued just before he noticed the spark of cobalt over Carolina’s shoulder, snickering and heaving on its own. 

“Oh my fucking _god,”_ Epsilon preened.

Washington stared at the AI with an intensity he could only pray would make Epsilon fly off, but it was no such luck. If anything, the AI seemed almost more gleeful.

“Right, well, how about we leave my room now,” Washington said waving them toward the door. “I want this to be over.”

“So you can finish, Hot Shot?” Epsilon cracked.

“No, just over. I would be happy with an ‘over,’“ Wash said simply. “And a ‘let’s never speak of this again.’“

Carolina and Epsilon looked to each other, then back to Wash. 

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Epsilon snorted. 

Wash groaned, rubbing his hands all over his face. “I honestly don’t know how much worse this could get.”

It got worse.

* * *

Tucker’s breakfast wasn’t really something that was easily ruined. It wasn’t that he had some insatiable appetite like Grif or that he was perpetually happy to be a morning person like Donut and Caboose. It was just the simple fact that Tucker was fairly sure that the first three hours of him being “awake” didn’t count. He couldn’t remember anything, including his craptastic non-pancakes. 

So as he closed his eyes and did everything he could to _not_ listen to Caboose’s chattering about some dream he had about a rabbit, Tucker thought that he could cruise his way through a few hours of unregistered existence before there was a jolt at the table in response to a flash of light.

Which meant Church had joined them for breakfast. Unusual.

“Church!” Caboose greeted emphatically.

“Yeah, hey, Caboose,” Epsilon greeted with little care. “Tucker! Oh, man, Tucker! I have had the most amazing morning in AI existence. I have... The treasure I have come across today should sustain me forever. That is how important this is. Hey, are you listening?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Tucker groaned, leaning against his fist. “Let’s see, what’s exciting for a computer... Did you torrent some music? Oh, did you find the last number in pi?”

“Hey, man, fuck you, I’m sharing a genuine life changing discovery here!” Epsilon countered. “You of all people would appreciate humiliating one certain former special ops guy by the name of _Agent Washington!_ ”

And, well, that _certainly_ got Tucker’s attention enough that he began to straighten in his seat and lean forward. “Say what?”

“Yes! Who is this specific oct who has Agent Washington’s name?” Caboose demanded.

“Yup!” Epsilon preened, ignoring Caboose’s input for then. “Dude, Tucker... okay, I don’t even know how to properly begin this. It’s that good.”

“Just fucking tell me already!” Tucker demanded, fully awake.

Epsilon flickered, his light becoming even brighter with what Tucker could only assume was excitement. “Alright, so Carolina and I were up and doing our regular shit, no big deal, just sort of taking our time in the barracks this morning, when we started hearing like _really_ loud noises. And at first we didn’t know what the fuck was going on. But then we realized they were screams -- like someone was screaming their goddamn head off--”

Tucker felt his face drop. He scowled. “What? And it was Wash? Dude, that’s not funny--”

“Oh, no,” Caboose mumbled. “Tucker, do you think he stubbed his toe?”

“No! Everyone shut up, you’re going to ruin my big reveal,” Epsilon demanded before clearing his throat. “Anyway. So we kind of had the same reaction at first. Like ‘oh, fuck something’s wrong’ and then we realized it was coming from Wash’s room and C went into _full on_ panic mode, so even if I had been able to process everything fast enough, it wasn’t gonna stop her because she thought there was something wrong with Wash.”

“But there wasn’t, was there?” Caboose asked seriously.

“No, Caboose, there wasn’t,” Epsilon snickered. He turned fully on Tucker. “Okay, so get this. We come in, busting the door down, and Wash is -- haha, oh my god, this is awful -- Wash is on the bed, mid-happy time. Dude had been _screaming_ , Tucker. From some morning wood.”

Tucker’s fork clattered against the table as he stared at Epsilon. “You can Carolina came in on Wash while he was playing hanky?”

“Yup. Quite a sight.”

“I, too, like to take walks in the woods in the morning,” Caboose said thoughtfully.

Tucker reached over the table to turn Caboose’s head away without ever taking his own eyes of Epsilon. “What so he was like. Jerking it. And you guys came in. And like...? No confusion. That’s what it was?”

“Yes,” Epsilon said clearly. “Believe me, there is no confusion on what was observed. My observation skills are _boss.”_

 _“What!?_ How’d this happen!? What’d you say? What’d everyone _do?”_ Tucker demanded.

“How’d it happen? We burst the door down, saw it was a mistake, _laughed our fucking asses off_ , and road off into the sunset!”

Tucker felt an inexplicable tightness grow in his stomach, and it _certainly_ wasn’t secondhand embarrassment. “Did he get to finish?”

“What kind of question is that!?” Epsilon demanded, actually sounding horrified. “I don’t fucking know! Why would I care?”

“Dude, why would you care? What about the Bro Code? You have to care if your bro’s left hanging!” Tucker cried out. “Oh, speaking of which...”

Epsilon disappeared and reappeared closer to Caboose. “You’re freaking me out, Tucker.”

“What? How?”

“What do you mean _how?_ What kinds of questions are these?” Epsilon asked.

“I just have to know!” Tucker defended. “Uh... speaking of need to know... Wash has freckles, right?”

“Hey! Freckles is Freckles’ name,” Caboose tried desperately to rejoin the conversation. 

“Uh.... yeah?” Epsilon answered hesitantly. 

“So, is he? Y’know... consistent?” Tucker tried desperately to string his words together in a way that wasn’t weird but it wasn’t quite working given Epsilon’s continued shrinking.

“I... don’t know how to answer that,” he said point blank.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to answer that!?” Tucker cried out. “You’re the one who has ‘keen observation skills,’ Churchapedia! I would _think_ that you’d be able to tell me something about his dick!”

“I wasn’t gathering data on _that specifically, Tucker!”_ Epsilon cried out. “That’s... weird!”

“You broke in on a dude jerking it, and I’m weird for wanting details!?” Tucker cried out.

“Yes! These are not details that go hand-in-hand with this story. You know what? You’ve officially made this weird. I’m out. I’m taking this to someone who can truly appreciate it,” Epsilon sniffed before disappearing.

Tucker glared at the spot where Epsilon had been. The tightness in his stomach continued. 

“It’d have to be, right? I mean, the guy’s fucking covered,” Tucker muttered to himself. He looked up to Caboose. “Caboose, do you realize that this information could change _everything_ I’ve planned for?”

Caboose blinked owlishly at him before scratching his own head. “Yeah, uh, Tucker... I don’t know what’s going on. But I think I should go on more walks with Agent Washington.”

* * *

Wash was more than a little prepared to move on with his life. 

Embarrassment wasn’t something he forgot easily, but it was still just a small blip on his radar compared to actual work, to Kimball and Doyle’s arguing, to the Reds and Blues needing to be kept from trouble. 

He could move past this. He had the power to, he was sure of it. 

And it was _just_ Carolina and Epsilon. He could deal with that. If there were any two people who _had_ to come in on him during a rather personal moment as it were, at least it was the two of them. 

Everything was manageable. 

He thought.

Having the drills up and running, much to the chagrin of the various Chorus soldiers who had only had a two day break from Wash’s command, was taking the vast majority of his attention at the moment but he could still very much see the way Tucker was just standing about fifteen feet off from him, staring with the most unreadable expression Wash had ever seen on the soldier.

With a bit of a sigh, Wash turned and faced Tucker, scowling a bit. He wasn’t in the mood. 

“Is there something you want, Captain Tucker?” Wash asked very pointedly.

Tucker groaned. “Yes.”

Pinching between his eyes, Wash sighed. He needed more patience. He didn’t get any coffee that morning, which was a mistake. The burst of energy from _manual stimulation_ and subsequent panic of being walked in on hadn’t quite translated to a consistent adrenaline for the rest of the day. 

“Okay, Tucker, what is it that you wanted?” he asked, trying his best to sound genuine. 

“I can’t say it yet, it’s not ready,” Tucker responded almost angrily -- as if it was Wash forcing his hand.

“Then what _can_ I help you with?” he asked thinly.

“Fuck if I know!” Tucker ground out before turning sharply on his heels and heading out of the training room. 

Washington just stared at him. He narrowed his eyes and threw up his own hands. He just did _not_ understand his men sometimes. Even on the cusp of feeling like he’d reached some understanding, they pulled stuff like this. 

“I’m sure that’ll come back around soon enough,” Wash decided, turning his attention back toward the soldiers in training only to nearly leap out of his skin when he realized Caboose had somehow silently manifested behind him. Wash threw his head back and sighed, his heart was getting a workout. “Good morning, Caboose.”

“Oh, yes. Hello, Agent Washington,” Caboose greeted, not bothering to move even slightly out of the way. 

Wash couldn’t help but release a sigh. At least dealing with Caboose’s usual discourse and shenanigans was not as complicated or frustrating as dealing with the others. Caboose, after all, was fairly direct.

“Are you wanting to join in training this morning?” Wash asked with a slight tilt of his head. “Or do you just want to watch with me?”

“I think I wouldn’t want to do either of them,” Caboose said, an almost thoughtful note to the end of his statement. He then slowly nodded after apparently thinking it over. “No, I would not. Thank you.”

“Alright then, that’s fine,” Wash agreed. “But I will be pretty busy doing this until later today. Then we can hang out and do fun stuff. Does that sound okay?” 

“But then it wouldn’t be morning?” Caboose continued, very confused. “And then we can’t do what we can do in the mornings.”

Blinking a few times, Wash genuinely tried his hardest to translate the Cabooseisms but found it was an almost entirely useless endeavor. He was missing some sort of context, he was sure. 

“Alright then,” Wash said. “What is it that we can only do in the mornings, Caboose?”

“Walking,” Caboose said, waving toward the door of the training room. “You know, I like to walk. I walk with Freckles. And sometimes Church. And I think about things. And talk about things. I like walking around in the morning. I had no idea that you, too, Agent Washington, liked to! I think we should walk together more.”

Wash put a hand on his chin, tried to really think of where this was all coming from, and decided he couldn’t put the pieces together. 

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Caboose,” he admitted. “I _don’t_ go on walks in the morning.”

The lumbering soldier sputtered. “What!? Yes you do! Church just told me about your morning woods!”

For a moment, Washington really couldn’t even process what was being said or, even more so, how it could ever possibly have come from _Caboose_ of all people. He simply stared at the Blue Sim Trooper and thought that his brain needed to be rebooted. 

He then began to slowly feel the world around him returning to normal speed, began to really get what Caboose was referring to, then he looked over to the training soldiers who were no longer running their drills but rather staring at the Freelancer troopers with somewhat lost expressions. 

As if he was a teenager again, Wash could honestly feel the rising of heat from his stomach up his spine, across his cheeks, and into his ears. 

He then looked back at Caboose who was completely clueless. 

Wash... Wash needed to devise some sort of plan to kill an AI program. He wasn’t sure how he could ever dream of getting past Carolina, but he imagined with enough embarrassment fueling him he could possibly work miracles. 

Or he could use that same fuel supply and dig a hole to throw himself down into and die. That was also an option.

“Caboose... that. You don’t. I can’t. Epsilon...” Wash covered his face with his hands and took a few long, deep breaths. He was _not_ going to freak out on Caboose. He was _not_ going to freak out on Caboose. 

“We aren’t going to go on walks in the mornings because I’m very busy in the mornings doing other things,” Wash decided on. He was almost proud of the way he was able to say it calmly until some of the soldiers began snickering at Wash reevaluated _what_ he said rather than _how_ he said it. 

That embarrassing wave of heat grew to his ears again, but this time Wash at least had some scapegoats he wouldn’t feel bad about later. 

Wash turned on his heels and threw a vicious snarl in for good measure. “Double laps!” he commanded, frightening the Chorus soldiers enough to take the drill without question. He then began to feel wobbly in his knees and squatted down, staring at the floor as he ran a hand through his hair. “They’re subordinates. You don’t owe the explanations, Wash. Just keep trucking on. Act like it didn’t happen. Yeah. There you go. This will all be under the bridge soon.”

“Is there a bridge we can walk on? I love bridges!” Caboose exclaimed.

Wash covered his face and groaned.

* * *

Tucker somehow managed to be in the room at the right time exactly _once_ that entire week to follow. He just happened to have come by Carolina and Church and was about to get heated with them on the subject that, by the looks of them, neither cared that much for anymore, when Washington came bursting onto the scene, nearly sounding incoherent.

“What have you been telling people!?” he demanded.

“What are you going on about?” Carolina demanded, hands defensively on her hips.

Church appeared by her shoulder, coughing a bit. “Oh. Uh. Awkward.”

“ _Epsilon,”_ Carolina chided, though Tucker had been enough on her ‘I’m pissed’ side over the years to know that it was far from truly upset with the AI. 

Washington’s face couldn’t have been redder if he _tried. “_ You two are so immature, so insensitive, so--” he threw up his arms exaggeratedly. “Caboose!? You told _Caboose!?”_

Tucker blinked, thinking back to breakfast, and couldn’t help but let out the, “Ohhhhh. That’s right. He _was_ there...”

Wash turned so sharply on his heels to face Tucker that the aqua Sim Trooper almost ducked out of fear that the Blue Team leader was readying to lunge. He didn’t, though, just _literally_ shaking in his own armor. 

“You too!?”

“Epsilon,” Carolina repeated, though at least bothering to sound _somewhat_ more genuine in her irritation at the AI.

“Okay, this is _somewhat_ of a misunderstanding,” Church declared. “See, the only person I ever tell anything is Tucker. Caboose was just there. To be fair, I didn’t think he would understand what we were talking about.”

“He didn’t, that’s an additional problem I have to address now,” Wash glowered. “That along with the fact that Caboose saw it fit to address his take on the situation _in front of an entire squad I was training.”_

Both Carolina and Church fell quiet at that news, perhaps even looking a little guilty. 

Something Tucker’s laugh didn’t help him fake.

There was a vein line over Wash’s forehead in danger of popping. “Do you think that’s _funny,_ Tucker!?” he demanded. 

“Well, I mean, everything’s a little funny given some space,” Tucker responded nervously. “I mean, Tex apparently watched me jerk it all the time back in Blood Gulch and called me on it. I was ashamed for like ten seconds. We all laughed about it later. Now it’s fucking hysterical. I mean, Tex must’ve liked what she saw I guess.”

The three other Blues fell so silent that Tucker could almost hear his own heart pounding in his chest. A tumble weed could have flown by. 

Both Epsilon and Washington stared at Carolina for a moment who, for her part, was still stock still before she covered her eyes. 

“I’ll... just erase that information from my mind then,” Carolina muttered under her breath.

“Right, and while you’re at it, how about you erase this morning as well?” Wash demanded. 

“You’re blowing this out of proportion, dude,” Church spoke up. “Like just relax and don’t do anything about it for a while and it’ll be fine. No one gives a fuck.”

“I do, I care a lot that not only is my privacy _invaded_ but that it’s become some joke to everyone,” Wash shot back immediately. “I don’t appreciate it, Epsilon.”

“It’s not a joke to everyone, dude,” Tucker responded, feeling an awkward heat rising in his chest. “I mean. I don’t think it’s funny. I really respect a man’s right to play with himself.”

Washington stared at him like he was some kind of foreign, alien matter and then just shook his head as he walked the rest of the way out of the facilities, griping to himself about having no respect.

“Well,” Church yawned. “That was awkward. Anything else you want to say to make yourself out to be more of a pervert, Tucker?”

Tucker glared at Church. “I’m not trying to be a pervert...” he paused, looking to Carolina. “Uh... Hey, Carolina. Did you happen to notice--”

Epsilon appeared right in front of Tucker’s vision. 

“Stop. Desist. Back off. Don’t ask her. Jesus, Tucker, what is your _deal?”_

“I have so many questions,” Tucker whined back. 

* * *

Wash, in reflection, would decide that he had no one but himself to blame for the next couple of weeks straight from hell. 

No matter his opinion on how Epsilon started the entire terrible scenario, Washington had to admit that at the every least the AI didn’t seem interesting on spreading his his gossip beyond his closest friends on Blue Team. 

The fact that those said closest friends were the people most likely to have anything to do with Wash aside, it did seem to at least minimize the amount of impact. 

Wash just had to avoid the mess hall during the hours that his one squad of training soldiers were most likely to be there. Which wasn’t a huge deal in itself. But it did make it to where he only really ventured into the cafeteria during odd hours between meals. And made it to where when it _was_ regular meal times and there was no one around, well. 

Wash found himself once more with time on his hands. 

That in itself was not a grand deal, but Wash’s room was still unappealing to waste time in, what with its broken lock and terrible memories, so he found himself rather confined to his office. 

And, for whatever godawful reason, the fact that Carolina and Epsilon _had_ ruined what had been some very physically needed activity left the idea of _finishing_ it very heavy on his mind. Possibly heavier than it had ever been before. 

A week after embarrassment and completely readjusting his life and schedule due to his said embarrassment, Washington found himself tapping a pen against the side of his desk and wondering if he was a glutton for punishment. Because he was _definitely_ entertaining the thought of it. 

He looked over to the clock on his computer, saw that he had at least another hour before the mess hall closed, and rubbed at his face. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned. 

He figured there was nothing to a quick and dirty -- get to his business, finish, get along with his day with a clear head for the first time in _forever_ \-- and didn’t even bother with most of the formalities. 

Determined, and with a hand over his mouth in preparation, Wash worked a hand into his pants, and couldn’t help but sigh a bit in relief as his stress almost immediately began evaporating. 

For the three minutes before his office door opened and he found himself staring at General Kimball.

She stared at him. Wash stared back.

In the long, silent moments that followed suit, Wash entertained the idea that just maybe his desk covered enough of himself that he wouldn’t have to offer Kimball a good supplier of mind bleach. 

But something about the posture she held and the expression on her face seemed to make that notion disappear almost immediately.

Quietly, Kimball stepped forward just enough to plop down the newest stack of papers for him, then she slowly and steadily backed out, shutting the door behind her. 

Wash, daring to move for the first time since he saw Kimball, pulled his hand out of his pants, leaned back into his chair, and let out a long sigh. 

Maybe he could put in an office transfer. 

* * *

Tucker was hardly looking for trouble when he came across Kimball. Hell, he actually gave a shit about her opinion of him so the last thing he wanted to be coming out of his mouth was anything to do with Wash or his frustration therein. 

That was conversation for Church or Grif. Not really the general of the New Republic. 

So he was taken aback when Kimball’s gaze zeroed in on him from across the city street and she fiercely made her approach toward him. Almost immediately, Tucker’s mind blanked on one-liners and pick ups and instead was rather steadfastly coming up with lists of anything he or the other Reds and Blues might have done to get in trouble.

The amount of material that filled that list in such a short amount of time was worthy of its own examination.

The last thing he expected was for Kimball to poke his chest angrily and start up a conversation on Wash’s habits. 

“Look, I’ve been in the military and served with men long enough to not question this bullshit anymore,” she said immediately, making Tucker _fairly_ sure he was missing about four minutes of a conversation.

“Huh?” he deigned intelligently.

“I get it. I don’t care. The amount of fucks I don’t give about people taking care of themselves on a military base is, quite frankly, _astounding,”_ she continued, momentum continuing to pick up somehow as her expression became more and more heated.

“Wait, Kimball, slow down, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on!” 

“But I still need _instructional time_ to be kept as _instructional_ time with my most reliable officers, and while I’d put up with this sort of behavior from you when we were back in the caverns, I don’t have the time or the resources for you to let your _habits_ rub off on Agent Washington, Tucker! I need him focused while he’s training our soldiers!”

Tucker blinked several times, looking at Kimball in _utter_ confusion until it dawned on him. 

Then he grabbed her shoulders and shook slightly. “WHAT!? You saw him doing it, too!? When!? How long? Oh my god how did I miss this?”

“This isn’t some kind of game, Tucker! I’m serious! Stop being a bad influence on Agent Washington while he’s in charge of my soldiers!” Kimball snapped back, swatting Tucker’s hands away like they were flies.

“Kimball, you have _no idea_ how much I _wish_ I was being a bad influence on Wash!” Tucker shouted before turning on his heel and running off to let loose on someone he could trust. 

He barely heard Kimball’s frustrated bark of “What does that even _mean!?”_

There wasn’t really any time to entertain Kimball’s temper because Tucker was a man on a mission, one that required the advice of the most pragmatic man he had ever known.

“HEY, GRIF!” 

The armory and garage were always incredibly busy and also mostly useless for anything outside of petty bickering, which had made it a pretty much perfect post for the Reds. Donut and Simmons were heading the front desk well enough as Tucker approached. 

Donut’s smile broadened. “Oh, _hiiiiiiiiiiii,_ Tucker! What are you here for? Maybe try on some nice crimson threads?”

“Ha, fuck that noise, better dead than Red,” Tucker responded, taking a little _too_ much enjoyment from the instinctive bristling both Donut and Simmons went into at the old insults.

“Well, whatever. Suck it, Blue,” Simmons responded. “Were you yelling for Grif?”

“Yeah, I thought he’d be working with you guys here, but now that I’m saying it out loud I realize how dumb that is,” Tucker said, stroking his chin. “Any idea where he’s sleeping?”

“Well, I _would_ assume the back of the garage,” Simmons responded thoughtfully. “But I’m pretty sure Lopez has already thrown him out of there _once_ today. So his next spot would probably be in the gun closet of Sarge’s lab.”

“That sounds dangerous _and_ like a good place to get caught,” Tucker responded.

“Well, it might’ve been if they weren’t mostly full of Sarge’s failed tests at this point,” Simmons shrugged. “Alien tech and what not. Usually Sarge just gets frustrated and throws them in there without looking. It’s probably the least violent interactions Sarge and Grif have ever had.”

“Fair enough,” Tucker responded, walking past the table. “Thanks for the tip, Simmons.”

“Eh, no skin off my bones. Plus it means you’re waking up Grif. So. Plus.”

Tucker strutted through the garage, following the sounds of Sarge’s grunting and the curiously loud sounds of a soldering iron in order to come across the aforementioned lab. Sarge’s back was to the door, focused on a sparking workbench.

“Hey, Sarge, don’t mind me,” Tucker said casually as he crossed to the closet. 

Sarge grunted, waving a hand as if to tell Tucker to leave but he never turned around from his work or otherwise acknowledged someone else in his lab. Tucker couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how, despite Sarge’s constant barking, his men got away with doing so much shit all the time.

Stopping at the closet door, Tucker flung it open only for a few dozen fried alien tools to fall out, uncovering the orange armored soldier beneath. Grif otherwise didn’t move, still snoring. 

“Grif! Hey, Grif! Lard ass! Get up, I’ve gotta talk to you!” Tucker yelled out over the soldering. 

Turning more toward the wall, Grif snarled, “Hey, Tucker? Do me a favor: fuck off. I’m busy.”

“No you’re not, asshole, now get up!”

“Nope.”

Tucker groaned and plopped down on the floor by the closet, figuring _why not_ since Sarge didn’t seem to be actively participating. 

“Hey, man, listen. I need to know what to do about Wash--”

“Tell him to take the stick out of his ass,” Grif said simply. 

“No, it’s nothing about that,” Tucker continued. “Listen, the guy’s had a bad couple of weeks with people running in on him taking care of his daily maintenance.”

Grif turned to give Tucker a careful look over. “What the fuck. Tell him to get a lock for his door.”

“No, that’s not what I want -- the problem is it’s never _me_ walking in! It’s other people!” Tucker groaned.

The Red turned his head slightly. “Why is _that_ a problem?”

“Because then _I_ find out about it and I’m suddenly insanely jealous and, fuck, dude, I’ve got _so many_ pick ups now that I could use. Like if I was there, in that moment, I know exactly what I would want to say. And it’d be perfect.”

The disgust on Grif’s face was palpable. “Jesus christ, dude. _You want to use a pickup on Agent Don’t-Fuck-With-Me Washington?”_

Nodding, Tucker replied, “It’s a really good one.”

Grif shakes his head. “Tucker, no pickup line is good enough to recover from the sort of situation we’re talking about here. Give up on it.”

“No, I refuse, it _is_ that good. Dude, I _believe_ in this pickup,” Tucker responded, beating a fist against his chest. “It’s _so_ good. I just have _one_ problem, which is that I don’t know if it’s going to be accurate or not. It’s _very_ selective based on what I _believe_ Wash’s dick’s profile looks like.”

“Your headcanon for Wash’s other head might not be canon accurate,” Grif said so saltily that Tucker’s enthusiasm was almost diminished.

“I just need someone to confirm for me, but I can’t get anyone who’s seen it to confirm.”

“This is, quite honestly, the most awkward conversation we’ve ever shared,” Grif said point blank. “And I’d like to remind you, we’ve shared some very awkward conversations in the past. Including about that rash.”

“But you were right about the rash, and you might be right about this if you’d just give me your honest opinion!”

“That’s all I _have_ been giving you, Tucker. This plan is fucking awful and, just a bit, creepy,” Grif responded. “No stable relationship will ever develop based on whether or not one dude’s imagined dick for another dude is apt for a pickup line. That’s the reality. Sorry to be harsh, there you go.”

“You’re so unhelpful.”

“I try to be.”

Tucker scowled at Grif for a bit before he crossed his arms and tried to consider some alternatives or, at least, some way to get Grif back on his side. It was something much more easily accomplished in the relative silence of the garage since the soldering iron had been turned off. 

Which then led to Tucker realizing the soldering iron had been turned off.

Stretching back, Tucker looked toward Sarge’s workbench only to see that the old colonel was no longer at his station or, really, anywhere within view of the garage at all. 

“What the fuck? Did Sarge vanish?” Tucker asked. “When’d he leave?”

“Hell if I know,” Grif shrugged. “At least it’ll be easier to get some shut eye with him gone, though. Though that thing _did_ help to cover up my snoring. Now I’ll have to be cautious of my snoring. Man, that’s just the _worst.”_

* * *

Wash decided, rather calm and collectively, that he wasn’t going to allow the mishap in the office to ruin what was left of his day and so he took the rest of the day off. He didn’t run it by Kimball, just alerting her secretary, but somehow he didn’t think the general would have minded.

Honestly, it was probably something she was trying to figure out a way to get him to do regardless.

Feeling skeeved out by his own behavior and lack of accomplishment, Wash easily skipped the mess hall and headed instead for his barracks and, in that same goal-oriented mindset, zipped straight for the showers. 

Being just after dinner for a large portion of the base, Wash was aware that there were others in the bath hall, but with the advent of personal curtains for the back shower heads, he quite frankly didn’t give a fuck. 

He needed a shower _bad.  
_

It was probably the quickest time he had ever had getting out of his armor and survival suit, which was saying something because it wasn’t exactly like he was wasting time doing it any other time. 

He made his beeline from the lockers to the end shower curtains, drew said curtains, threw his towel over, and turned on the shower head, full steam.

Washington then also put his forehead on the tile beneath the shower head and proceeded to beat it against the unrelenting wall no less than five times before sighing into the collecting steam. 

“Glass half full, Wash,” he muttered to himself. “You are really just one night’s sleep away from tomorrow. Then you can continue on pretending nothing in the world is wrong.”

For perhaps a microsecond, the universe humored him, before he could hear the external doors to the bathroom burst open loud enough to leave concern for cracking. 

“WHERE IS AGENT WASHINGTON?”

There was no guessing required to figure out whose unmistakable voice that was, and there wasn’t a need for a second guess on whether or not Wash wanted anything to do with whatever Sarge needed him for. He didn’t. 

So Wash remained quiet, staring at the shower head, waiting out the storm.

At least, he did until he recalled there were several other soldiers in the men’s room at the time and a good number of them were probably sick of running laps and in need of some good ol’ revenge on their trainer. He cursed under his breath as he heard the stomping of nearing boots. 

Despite everything in him knowing it was coming, Wash still couldn’t help but jump two feet when the shower curtain was literally ripped down from its rod in a sequence of metal _CHINKS.  
_

And in an instant Wash realized he had never been in a position before where he couldn’t figure out if it was better to let the men who served under him get full view of his pale white ass or an examination of the full frontal. So he just stood facing the tile. 

“What the _HELL_ is wrong with you!?” Washington _demanded_ as he looked over his shoulder at Sarge. 

“We need to talk, son!”

Forgetting how to make human noise, Wash sputtered incoherently for a few moments before screaming, “RIGHT. THE FUCK. _NOOOOOWWWWWW?!?”_

“Absolutely! This is a prime example of my foremost concern,” Sarge barked out. 

Wash felt his eye twitching so hard that he almost let up on covering his junk to rub at it. He didn’t, of course, because there was a lunatic in red armor practically breathing down his neck in the showers. 

“I could kill people with a spork,” he reminded Sarge darkly. “I could kill people with a spork and you’re testing my nerves right now.”

“Bah, sporks have points. They’re practically cheating in terms of dinnerware murder!” Sarge dismissed far too easily with the wave of a hand. “And beside that, you’re distracting me from the main objective here! You are allowing the throes of passion to far too easily overtake you! Take you from behind! Reap you of everything you have!”

Looking over his shoulder at the somewhat gathering crowd, Wash felt his entire body heating up more and more in a way that had nothing to do with his non-shower. 

“Is there absolutely _any_ way you could phrase _any_ of that in a way that was not horrendous?” Wash asked, then, “Are you spending even _more_ time with Donut?”

“Wash, you’ve got a problem,” Sarge tsked. 

“I _do!_ It’s an old man that is putting me on display in the men’s showers!” Wash roared.

“No, dumb dumb! Your problem is your incredible and borderline clinical repression of actively healthy stimuli!” Sarge howled back. 

“Like--”

“Like coitus! Intercourse! Hanky panky!” Sarge announced so loud that Wash wondered if he was on intercom somehow. “Though in your particular case, due to some strange crippling insecurity or anxiety, it appears to be most closely referred to as stimulation of the manual steering column. Get it? It’s a Star Trek reference for masturbation--”

“I can murder you with _one_ thumb!” Wash snarled. 

  “Bah, being a Freelancer you should be able to turn me into beef stew with a pinky. But you got Blue on ya, and it’s corrupted those skills. I can understand and feel some remorse for you in that respect,” Sarge continued, as if anything he ever said made a lick of sense to Washington. 

“You need to leave. _Now.”_

“See, this is what I’m talking about! Your libido is blinding you, leaving you vulnerable to personal invasion--”

“You are, personally, invading my space right now. Leave or I will be forced to show my hand,” Wash continued to warn. He then glared out into the bathroom. “That goes for _absolutely everyone in here._ If your squad doesn’t enjoy their current training regiment, then they’re _really_ going to hate what I make you all do when I am _incredibly_ pissed off at one of their squadmates!”

In a sort of sick way, Wash watched in pleasure as the bathroom almost immediately cleared save for Sarge. 

“Colonel, any respect I had for you as an officer has officially dwindled,” Wash announced. “In fact, it’s not literally nonexistent. I have so little that what might have once existed is negated and circumvented.”

The Red shrugged with one shoulder exaggeratedly. “What do I care? I wasn’t the team leader caught with his drawers down.”

If it would have been possible, Wash would have believed at least half of the steam rolling out was coming from his own ears at thatpoint. 

“SERIOUSLY?” he screamed. “My pants weren’t caught down! They’re off because I’m in the goddamn shower! You stalked me down in the shower and attacked!”

“But that’s the point, you’re unprepared for an attack in these situations, Señor Specklebum.”

Murder was a totally justifiable course of action Washington decided. He didn’t think anyone on Chorus would have taken him up to challenge that, but he still thought better of it. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, turned off the shower, took a moment to collect himself again. 

Then he dropped straight to the floor, swiping out with his leg, knocking Sarge off his feet and right onto his back, before getting up again. He walked over to his now very damp towel, scooped it off the floor, and headed out into the hall with it wrapped soggily at his hips. 

If he stayed focus on just getting into his room, Wash could almost believe that the heat under his skin and bright red hue was from the shower water rather than the utter embarrassment across his entire person. 

He was just turning into his door when he saw a flash of aqua in the corner of his eye. 

Wash glared with everything in him as Tucker approached.

“Oh, man, Wash! Nice sunburn,” Tucker bumbled out, eyes concentrating on something though Wash absolutely refused to entertain any idea of _what_ that was. 

“What do you want, Tucker?” Wash asked venomously. He had _no_ patience anymore. It was used up. He was _done.  
_

“Geeze, nothing! I just wanted to know whether or not your door locked again yet!” Tucker said in the most blantantly panicked, half-baked way possible. 

Wash’s grip around the door knob tightened. “No.”

“I was just trying to help a bro out, so if you uhh... like need someone ever to... stand guard or something... y’know...”

There was a bit of hesitation where Washington’s mind literally tried to process whatever it was that Tucker was saying, but it became rapidly apparent that the very tired, very disgruntled former Freelancer gave less than a shit about whatever it was, so without even saying a word he opened the door, walked in, and slammed the door in Tucker’s face before carrying on the rest of the way into his room.

Silence fell over Wash’s room as he gathered his clothes. 

“Actually, that didn’t do anything since it doesn’t lock, y’know!”

“TUCKER!” Wash screamed at the top of his lungs. “GO AWAY!”

He waited until he could hear the drag of Tucker’s feet and the lessening of his mumbling before carrying on. 

* * *

The full story Tucker got after he pulled a supremely splattered Sarge off the bathroom floor was decidedly _not_ as amusing to him as it was to absolutely every other person who heard it. 

And there were a lot from their inner circle who heard that story, mostly from Sarge himself with no shortage on the bombast. 

At one point, no one could even hear the story because Grif was rolling on the floor cackling so loud that Tucker didn’t even initially believe he was the same human being as Grif. Grif had _never_ laughed like that at anything. 

Well. Save for Wash’s expense. 

Tucker wasn’t so sure _what_ drove him up the wall about everyone’s take on the situation, but he definitely felt as though he was being driven up a wall and over it. Everyone laughed, Tucker had only one concern.

“Sarge... did you notice if... y’know, how Wash kind of has a lot of freckles...”

Sarge stroked his square jaw at that for a moment. “I can’t help your strangely particular obsession with Agent Washington’s junk, Tucker, however I _can_ tell you that what wasn’t lily colored on his ass cheeks was _certainly_ peppered!” 

Rolling his eyes back into his head, Tucker _really_ considered the information for a few minutes. “Well, it’s something to fall back on,” he decided. “I don’t know if it’s more romantic, though.”

“Wait, you’re going for romance with this?” Grif asked, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized. “Can you take video? As much as I love Sarge’s story, visual representation of Wash wanting to shrivel up and die from embarrassment would _really_ make all of this better.”

“Ugh, forget it,” Tucker snapped. “I don’t see why it’s so funny to humiliate... Okay, I take that back immediately. I _totally_ get the appeal of humiliating Wash, but just not while I’m working the field, guys, alright?”

“There are no alliances, truces, or pussyfooting in this particular war,” Sarge said in a brash tone. “This is chaos. Pure and simple.”

“Ugh, forget you guys,” Tucker groaned, heading out with a wave of his hand. 

The plan was simple enough. He just need needed to sleep on it and make something out of the whole scenario the next day, it’s how Tucker _usually_ dealt with these sorts of things. 

And he would have gone straight into his instincts had it not been for the fact that he wasn’t hardly able to shut his eyes at all. All he could think about it was _how good_ his idea was for hitting on Wash should he ever walk in on the guy and if the guy did, in fact, have freckles on his dick. 

Rarely had such a pickup line come into fruition as strongly as the one Tucker currently had on mind and it was driving him absolutely nuts to not use it. 

He stared at his ceiling in the middle of the night, not having gained a wink of sleep, and shook his head. “This must be what love feels like, because I _seriously_ can’t get his dick out of my head.”

Finally, he closed his eyes with a sigh and, “Bow Chicka Bow Wow.”

By morning, Tucker actually woke up early enough to race through his morning routine, rush to Command, and head straight to the training room where Wash’s first morning drills should have been in action. Which, of course, they _were_ , but there was no sign of Agent Washington. 

It must have said something about the fear his training regiment instilled in forces because even without Wash standing over them, the soldiers weren’t missing a beat.

“Okay, not here,” he grunted before rushing toward Command’s central building where he began his search with even more earnest. 

Wash wasn’t available in his office, in the War Room, in the radio tower -- Tucker was almost beginning to get worried before he neared bumped into Kimball in the hall.

“Easy there, Captain,” Kimball said, brow raised. “Is there an emergency?”

“What? Uh. No. I mean not a real one. It’s real for _me_ just no one else would care,” Tucker paused, took a breath as he looked around. He then looked back to the perplexed general. “Hey, so, you wouldn’t have happened to see Wash, would you?”

At the very mention of Wash, Kimball’s face drew together to be purposefully unreadable. Tucker had seen her pull that expression several times when she had to address the various troops. 

“I have not seen him,” she said simply. “He said he wanted the day off for ‘personal time’ and I emphatically agreed with it.”

Tucker stared at her, _astonished.  
_

“You mean right now? Today? He’s taking personal time,” he clarified.

“Yes, that is literally what I just said, Tucker--”

Feeling hysterical, Tucker threw up his arms and bellowed, “OH MY GOD! THERE’S NO WAY!” 

Without missing a beat, Tucker threw Kimball a look of utter gratitude, said “Thank you!” and took off out of the building. Whether Kimball even bothered to process the event or not Tucker had no idea.

He, after all, had a mission and a _very_ particular set of circumstances with which he had to work with. For the greater good.

* * *

Washington thought if he concentrated on the coffeemaker enough, the weeks worth of pain and suffering he wished to unleash hell about would fade into obscurity. That he could, like a normal space marine, walk into the mess hall in the mornings and have the craptastic dead testing brew that everyone else had without having to duck his head in shame.

He thought it for _perhaps_ a minute straight, when his door burst open to a kick with so much force a literal hinge came loose.

Turning his head, Wash stared at the door almost apathetically. 

As the last month had shown, someone kicking his door down to something as mundane as him brewing coffee was, well, downright worthy of celebration at that point. 

Tucker was out of breath, staring at Wash – shoulders _literally_ heaving from apparently running the entire length of the base to get to his room. 

Wash just blinked at him before the timer dinged, then he looked to his single cup of coffee. He grabbed it. 

“Were you expecting something, Tucker?” Wash asked, trying his best to hide the embarrassed redness of his ears through carefully controlled actions.

Tucker threw up his arms and howled, “GODDAMMIT!!!” loud enough that Wash, rather hysterically, looked to his door to see if the other hinge had popped off due to the sheer volume. It hadn’t. Because Wash’s life, despite all evidence to the contrary, wasn’t a fucking cartoon.

He sipped the coffee from his mug and narrowed his eyes at the aqua armored soldier. 

“Haven’t I lived through enough people walking in on me?” he asked very seriously. “Did you honest to god run across the base so that you could see me–”

“YOU BET I DID!” Tucker roared. He kicked the door. _That_ popped the other hinge off.

They both watched rather unceremoniously as the door fell to the ground with a smack.

“Tucker, as much as I appreciate a good joke, can my personal business _not_ be the butt of them anymore? This has gone on too long,” he near pleaded.

“Wash, you _really_ don’t understand how important this is to me,” Tucker groaned, shoulders dropping. 

Throwing up his arms, Wash couldn’t keep ‘calm, collected leader’ on his face any longer. “HOW IS ME MASTURBATING IMPORTANT TO YOU!?”

“I’ve thought about this for weeks–”

Wash flinched back. “Me masturbating? For _weeks!?”_

“And I’ve finally got it,” Tucker announced, holding his hand up to stop Wash’s train of thought. For what it was worth, it worked. Tucker looked _utterly_ serious as he met Wash’s eyes and said, straight faced. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ve been to England. I _love_ a good spotted dick.”

Feeling every ounce of heat in his body raise to his face, Wash coughed out, rather baffled, “Who told you I had freckles there…?”

“You do!? I KNEW IT!”

About the time that Tucker began dancing to the news, Wash looked down to his cup, found it rather distasteful to even _look_ at, and walked over to his room’s sink to pour it out. Another day ruined. And he didn’t even have to be walked in for that to happen.

“Well, as much joy as I get out of being the center of everyone’s demented humor, Tucker, my spotted dick and I will have to ask you to leave,” Wash said, his brain literally about to kick its own ass for the words tumbling out of his mouth. _What the fuck is wrong with you???  
_

“What!?” Tucker whined instantly, ceasing the entertaining dance in order to look at Wash in horror. “You’re kicking me out!? But I wasn’t making fun of you!”

Washington closed his eyes and breathed fiercely through his nose. He turned, crossing his arms as he stared at Tucker. 

“Okay, what was that then?” he asked almost in lampoon of actually caring for whatever excuse Tucker was bound to come up with.

“Dude, I’m not making fun of you,” Tucker said with the same serious tone and face he used for his weeks and weeks worth of a comeback to Wash’s embarrassment. Therefore it was utterly meaningless until he continued with, “That was my super smooth attempt at coming onto you.”

Wash scowled. “I can tell you really mean that because, like any good pick up, it had to be explained to the receiver.”

“Don’t be an asshole, I’ve been waiting a very long time to use that,” Tucker defended. “Since the very first person who walked in on you I’ve been like ‘Well, if it happens again it’s going to be walking in on him, and I better have something amazing to say so that it becomes less awkward and more ‘oh, Tucker, baby, yeah.’“

Tapping his finger, Wash felt like he was about to explode. “You’re like… the thirteenth person in a month to burst in on me. And I was making coffee. How does that make you feel?”

“Uh, _cheated,”_ Tucker responded. “Do you have any idea how hard I booked it to get here from Kimball’s office when I heard you were staying in the barracks today for ‘alone time.’“

“For fuck’s sake it’s not a daily thing!” Wash cried out. “I just wanted coffee!!!”

“Do you take it _black_ , like your _men?”_

Washington felt his eye twitching. “The way you flirt is shameful,” he announced. “You should feel ashamed.”

“I’m trying so hard,” Tucker muttered, shoulders drooping.

“Are you being serious?” 

“As serious as I can be.”

Wash took a breath and looked to the ceiling, wondering if it could cave on him if he wished hard enough. “I think I’m done with life now, Jesus, you can take me.”

“I have a direct line to Alien Jesus, if you know what I mean.”

“Kill me now. I’m ready.” Wash stared at the ceiling, waiting for his met demise, and wondered just how much of his genuine disappointment that it never came showed through. 

It still wasn’t enough for Tucker to take the hint that this conversation was simply not happening.

“Dude, you’ve gotta throw me a bone here!” Tucker groaned. 

“I’m pretty sure I don’t have to do anything,” Wash said firmly, looking back at him. “Why are you keeping this up?”

“There’s -- okay well there _is_ something to keep up,” Tucker paused to assess Wash’s reaction before going ahead and completing the expected “ _Bow Chicka Bow Wow!”_ to the exasperated eye roll Wash had in store for it. “But I’m being dead serious! I’m not trying to toy with you or make fun of you or any other bullshit! I just genuinely want you to know that you and your awesome freckled dick seem really hookup worthy to me!”

Wash put down his coffee mug in order to rub at his eyes and stop the twitching because it was getting insufferable. 

“This is not how you ask normal people out, Tucker,” he said almost painfully.

“Yeah? Who the fuck in this room is normal? You jacked off to paperwork!”

“It wasn’t _to_ the paperwork, it was _during_ the-- you know what forget it!” Wash rubbed his face to the point that he was worried it was going to rub raw. With a long, exaggerated groan, he peered through his fingers and glared at Tucker. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I tell you it worked, are you?”

Tucker frowned a bit, eyes narrowing in focus. “Or I’ll keep trying to find one that _does_ work and won’t leave until it does.”

“God, this month has been a nightmare,” Wash sighed, shaking his head. “Okay, fine! Fine. I will give this a shot, but I _swear to god,_ Tucker, if this is a joke. I will strangle you. If you make another comment about my freckles, I will castrate you. That’s it--”

There was a short, alien scream from Tucker and he smacked himself in the head. “FUCK I’m so stupid! That is _such a good one--”_

Wash blinked. “What is?”

Tucker coughed into his fist before leaning back, pointing at Wash with a sultry smile. “Hey, baby. Are you a stubbed toe? Because I’d bang you on all of the furniture--”

Snapping his wrist toward the door, Wash hoped he could get Tucker out before he had a stroke. “GET OUT!”

“So dinner on Friday?”

“Tucker, get out of my sight or you won’t live to _see_ Friday and know whether or not I’ll be there. Now _out!”_

It was the most pleased look Washington had ever seen on the younger captain and it was the furthest thing from flattering at the moment. He waited in utter aggravation until he saw for himself that Tucker was turned down the hall, skipping and providing commentary for himself all the way. 

Wash rolled his eyes and turned back to his now doorless room with all the heart palpatations Tucker had given him.

“I don’t even have words,” he muttered, just before a piece of ceiling crumbled to the ground. He turned to examine the door facing and saw a crack in the plaster wall straight from the battered doorframe. “Of course.” He stepped out into the hall and screamed, “TUCKER!!!”

“OH MY GOD NO!” Epsilon could be heard from down the hall. “I owe Grif fifty bucks!”


End file.
